Healing
by HCAddict
Summary: Sam is sick and Dean takes care of him. Set during S1. Warning: Graphic descriptions of vomiting.
1. Chapter 1

"Pull over." Sam groaned, blinking a weary eye open and wincing at the brightness of the sun streaming in through the windshield, "Dean."

"What?" Dean asked, turning down the radio and glancing in his brother's direction, "Did you say something, Sammy?"

Sam squirmed in his seat, pressing his hand against his abdomen with a groan, "Stop the car, I'm going to puke."

"Okay, okay." Dean said in a tone of mixed thinly veiled panic and mild concern. Sam didn't feel up to analyzing his brother's psyche at the moment, but it was likely panic at the idea of the car getting soiled and concern that his brother was unwell. Or maybe panic and concern for the car, which wouldn't be a thought too far off the reservation.

Dean pulled onto the shoulder, checking behind them to make sure no one was nearby, then stepped out of the car and walked to Sam's side, where his little brother had already pushed the door open and stumbled a few feet from the car, bent over and breathing heavily in an attempt to stop the inevitable.

A thin layer of sweat was accumulating on his forehead and he spit a mouthful of acidic saliva onto the ground, knowing that if he swallowed, it would be his undoing. He could feel the bile rise into his throat and he groaned, hoping this nausea would pass without cumulating to actual vomiting, but the rising chunks told him that he wasn't going to get a reprieve this time around. Swallowing back the rising mess, he hoarsely pleaded, "Go away. Please."

"I've seen you blow chunks before, dude." Dean remarked, shuddering slightly at the memories of many years of caring for his brother invaded his thoughts. Sam didn't get sick often, but when he did, it was usually to the extreme.

"Please." Sam gasped, not sure he could hold off any longer, "Privacy."

Dean rolled his eyes, but obeyed Sam's wishes and stepped towards the rear of the car, close enough to be of assistance if needed but still not right in Sam's line of fire. He grimaced as the sound of retching filled his ears, and he tried not to hear the splattering of liquid against the pavement. Unfortunately, the more he tried not to think about it, the more he did, and he felt his own gag reflex give a sympathetic jolt. To stave off his own discomfort, he quietly began to hum a Metallica song, waiting for Sam to finish so he could swoop in and do his big brother gig.

Sam coughed weakly, feeling slightly dizzy and off-balance after the onslaught of sickness, and spit a few times, trying to get some of the sour taste from his mouth. He hadn't been this sick in ages, and the last time he was had been a totally different experience. Growing up on the road, he was accustomed to riding out viruses and food poisoning in the cramped confines of a car, spewing his guts out on the side of the road and being told to man up just a little longer until they reached their destination. Their Dad wasn't known to be a particularly compassionate person when it came to minor illness and injury, not when there was more important things to accomplish. When Sam had gotten to hunting age, illness meant generally being treated as a disappointment as well as an inconvenience since not only was he delaying their trip, but it was hard to hunt when his mind was thick with fatigue and his entire body ached. The last time he had been sick, though, was right after finals during this third semester and he had been nursed back to optimal help by Jess, who had fixed him chicken noodle soup, cuddled him when he felt terrible, supplied him with cool washcloths for his feverish forehead, and was more compassionate than anyone he had ever known before. They had spent an entire week holed up in their apartment, lounging in pajamas and watching old movies even though he was feeling well enough to function after only a few days. She had insisted on making sure he was 100% healed before they did anything other than cuddle in bed or the couch, and he had never felt mothered like that before. He had to admit that at this very moment, he wished she was there to rub his back and hold him and comfort him...and he hated that he felt that way, because if Dean had any idea that Sam missed snuggling, he'd never hear the end of it.

"You done, man?"

Sam glanced over at his big brother, trying to gauge whether he actually was done or not, and after a particularly loud gurgle from his stomach, he shook his head slightly, "Give me a minute."

"Take your time." Dean replied, turning his attention to the trunk, where he was searching for a bottle of water or something for Sam to rinse his mouth out with. He glanced in Sam's direction when he didn't hear any further sounds, aside from Sam's heavy breathing. The kid looked terrible, dark rings around his eyes, his face a shade of pale that Dean hadn't seen since the time Sam had lost a dangerous amount of blood on a hunt when they were teenagers. Sweat had soaked through the fringes of Sam's hair, as well as the back of Sam's t-shirt. While it wasn't a common occurrence for one of them (or both, when particularly unlucky) to get sick after eating at one of the dives they usually stopped at, it wasn't unheard of. This seemed different, though, both in intensity and how quickly Sam seemed to be going downhill. Dean really hoped it wasn't something serious.

"I think I'm good." Sam announced after a few minutes of battling nausea, "Can we stop somewhere, though? I need a shower."

Which was true, Dean noted. Sam's shirt and jeans were soiled with last night's dinner and he smelled worse than some of the monsters they had recently killed, "Fine by me. I don't want you horking in the car anyway-if you do, you die."

"I know." Sam said tiredly, too weak to keep up with the banter that Dean was using to hide his concern. "Just...drive gently." Sam opened the car door, moving to get in when his muscles cramped up and he gagged again, turning away quickly and doubling over with a weak moan. He felt absolutely rotten, he just wanted to curl up in bed and die in peace. He gagged a few more times, though nothing resurfaced, and was just about to call the situation safe when Dean appeared at his side, a towel and a plastic bag in hand.

"Get in the car." Dean instructed, gently nudging his gigantic little brother towards the seat, "Take this...use it in case of an emergency. I'll drive carefully and we'll stop at the next place we come across."

Sam was too weak and tired to respond, though he tried to convey his appreciation with a smile that likely came out as a grimace. He shivered, letting his eyes fall closed as soon as the rumble of the Impala's engine met his ears. The sound had always been soothing, but he really appreciated the sound of the one place that felt like home when he felt as rotten as he did. He didn't realize he was starting to doze off until Dean clipped a pothole, the car giving a jolt that had Sam's stomach lurching once more. He opened the plastic bag that Dean had provided, looking down at it in distaste; he desperately wanted to avoid having to actually use it, and with a sideways glance towards Dean he could see that his brother was in agreement that it was better for all involved if he just held it in. Sam let his eyes close again and he took a deep breath before swallowing back acid that was beginning to rise in his throat.

"Not much longer." Dean reassured his younger brother, sensing the impending inevitable gastric feats, "Hanging in there?"

"Mmm." Sam hummed in response, not really trusting himself to open his mouth. He rested his achy head against the car window, the glass cool and comforting. A few minutes passed and he felt the car slowing and turning, and he cracked an eye open to see where they had arrived. He raised an eyebrow at the motel-it was a name brand chain, not their usual rathole, and he glanced over at Dean with a silent question of "what the hell?"

"If you're going to be holed up in the bathroom, we should probably get a bathroom that isn't roach infested."

"Ew." Sam muttered, his eyes drifting closed again as Dean shut off the ignition and got out of the car. His stomach did another somersault and he once again pulled the bag open, contemplating whether it would be better to expend the energy he didn't have to remove himself from the car to vomit or to save the little energy he had left and be embarrassed by making use of the bag Dean had given him. Ultimately, it didn't matter because when he doubled over, he completely missed the bag and instead was sick on his lap, the seat and the floor.

The upholstery. Dean was going to kill him.

A second onslaught directly followed the previous and he vomited again, his muscles protesting in agony and his body wanting nothing more than to just cease existing. He was in the midst of contemplating a third round when his door opened and Dean tugged on his arms in an attempt to remove him from the car with a frown on his face.

"Dude, you're really sick." Dean muttered, grabbing some napkins and wiping at Sam's clothes, "Are you thinking food poisoning? Virus?" His questioning was met with Sam bending over to puke again, barely missing Dean's feet in the process. "Okay, man, this isn't good. You eat like a friggin girl, there's no way you can have this much inside of you."

"Stop talking about eating." Sam moaned, his arms wrapping around his stomach in agony, "Just stop talking completely."

"Lets get you into the room." Dean suggested, "And into the shower, you reek."

"_You_ reek." Sam muttered in response, sounding more like a twelve year old than a grown man, "Just get the shovel and dig a hole out back to bury me in."

"Drama queen." Dean grumbled, though he was starting to worry about his kid brother. Sam was never one to really come out and say how rotten he felt; Dean was great at noticing when Sam wasn't at 100% percent and could usually figure out the problem, but Sam rarely complained about anything and usually tried to cover when he wasn't feeling great. "You're going to be fine. You'll take a shower, get some sleep and when you wake up we'll start pumping you with fluids and you'll be back on your feet before you know it."

A groan was his only response.

As soon as they crossed the threshold to the hotel room, Sam stumbled to the bathroom. Dean expected to hear the shower turn on, but instead his ears were met with the sound of retching once more. He wasn't surprised, but he was hoping the kid would catch a break. He knocked lightly on the bathroom door, calling through the thin wood, "I'm going to get some ice from the machine and see if I can find someone in housekeeping to get us some extra plastic cups...I'm surely not going to drink after you when you're in this shape."

"You're probably already infected." came Sam's weak response, which caused Dean to frown because his brother was probably right and Dean definitely didn't want to be in Sam's position.

"Bitch." Dean called back, frowning when Sam only continued to heave. This wasn't good, Sam needed some sort of meds before he got dehydrated. Deciding he'd work on that when he got back from rounding up supplies, he slipped out of the hotel room in search of the ice and vending machines.

Once he was sure Dean was gone, Sam finally gave in to the tears that had been stinging his eyes for the last five minutes. He had never felt so completely awful in his life; every muscle ached deeply, his stomach hurt both from sickness and from the exertion that it had been put through, his head was pounding and he felt hot and dizzy. He reached with one hand to flush the toilet, the other pressed against his stomach in an attempt to steady himself. He stripped off his shirt and jeans, weaving into the bedroom to find a change of clothes. It was only then that he realized Dean hadn't brought their bags in yet, which royally sucked because he was now starting to shiver and he sure as hell wasn't putting his soiled clothes back on. He was already toying with the idea of burning what he had been wearing, even though they were still in decent condition and quite comfortable, just because he didn't think there was a washing machine in the world that would be able to get the smell of sickness out of them at this point. He shivered again, his teeth chattering slightly, and gently lowered himself onto his bed. When that motion didn't set off another wave of nausea, he sank against his pillow, no longer having the strength to remain upright for any period of time. The room swam around him and his head throbbed angrily. Sam rolled onto his side, hoping to find a position that made his head not feel like a jackhammer was pounding into his skull, and instead only managed to further anger his stomach, which chose that moment to spontaneously eject once more. It was a true testament to how lousy he felt that he didn't feel even the slightest bit of embarrassment moments later when Dean came back to the room to find a half-naked Sam laying on a bed stained with vomit.

"You're a complete mess, Sammy." was all Dean said as he placed the ice bucket on the sink counter before dropping both of their bags onto the empty bed. While Sam closed his eyes to prevent the world from spinning around him, Dean searched through Sam's duffle for a clean shirt and sweatpants, and then wet a washcloth, dabbing his dozing brother's face clean. After a few minutes of silently working, Dean pulled the duvet off the corner of the bed, gently commanding, "Roll over."

"I can't." Sam whined, long past the point of caring how pathetic he looked or sounded, "If I move, I'm going to be sick again."

Dean frowned, putting his hand against Sam's forehead, "I know this sucks, and you feel like crap, but you can't sleep in a dirty bed."

"Watch me."

"Come on, Sammy, work with me." Dean retorted with a sigh, suddenly having a flashback to many years ago when he had been left alone with a sick little brother who was just as whiny and difficult. He ruffled Sam's hair in a rare show of affection, and then continued to coax Sam to roll over so he could finish cleaning the kid up, "You're burning up, you know. When you think you can handle it, you need some tylenol or something."

"I'll never be ready." Sam complained, though he did roll over so Dean could continue stripping the top layer from the bed, "I'm going to die here."

"Somehow, I doubt that."

"I'm going to throw up again." Sam warned, attempting to push himself off the bed but completely giving up when Dean thrust a small trash can under his face. His body shivered between heaves, his muscles trembling and weak and his mind fuzzy and disoriented. He couldn't remember having ever felt this terrible before, at least not from something as ordinary and non-supernatural as a stomach bug, and tears threatened to fall as he wondered if this was ever going to end.

In all fairness, his big brother wasn't in much better mental condition. Dean had also never seen Sam so ill and he was starting to freak out quite a bit, though he tried to maintain a calm and composed face in an attempt to fool both Sam and himself into thinking he had this covered. A large part of him wanted to rush his brother to the nearest medical clinic, while another smaller and irrational part of him wanted to call their Dad and ask what they should do. He knew this was just the panic speaking, because their Dad would have no clue what Sam needed; Dean had always been the one caring for Sam, but there had rarely ever been a time where their Dad couldn't fix something. Of course, it's not like their Dad would answer anyway, he hadn't answered the other times Dean had tried him over the last five months.

When Sam had finally stopped turning himself inside out, Dean handed Sam his clean clothes, asking quietly, "Do you need any help?"

"I've got it." Sam replied, his voice tired and strained, though there was still a hint of defiance in his tone that Dean had become well-accustomed to over the last 22 years. Sam had an independent streak a mile long and it always picked the worst possible moment to rear it's ugly head. It was one of the things he loved the most about his brother, but it was also one of the things that irritated him to no end. Sam struggled with the shirt for a few moments before his arms fell limply to his sides, a groan of defeat soon following.

Without rubbing it in that he knew Sam needed the help, which he felt he should be rewarded for, Dean silently finished dressing his younger brother, who was fading fast. It only took a gentle nudge to get Sam back into a resting position and within minutes Dean was left with a softly snoring little brother and the cleaning duties. After tidying up enough to where it wouldn't be too entirely gross for either of them to use the bathroom and tying off Sam's soiled clothes in a bag to try and curb the stench emanating from them, Dean washed his hands in an attempt to not catch whatever plague Sam was suffering with and then flopped down onto the other bed. It was still early, too early to even think about sleeping, but he had a feeling that with the condition Sam was in, neither would be getting much rest. With that in mind, Dean let himself doze off in hopes that when he woke, Sam would have recovered and they could hit the road.

Sam blinked his eyes open nearly two hours later, the aching in his head now so intense that it was nearly incapacitating. As he returned to awareness, he quickly realized that he was having stabbing pains in his stomach just as painful as the throbbing against his skull, and he pressed one hand against his belly in an attempt to relieve some of that pain while putting his other hand to his head in an attempt to steady the world. Neither worked. He rolled from his back to his side, regretting it almost immediately when the world spun dizzily around him and he felt his insides constrict, his mouth watering ominously.

"Dean?" He called out weakly, unable to focus enough through the blinding pain in his skull to determine his brother's exact location. His brother gave a grunt in response, and Sam could only assume Dean was sleeping because he knew that if Dean was awake, he'd have given an actual response.

Not wanting to disturb his brother, Sam struggled to get to his feet, feeling lightheaded and disoriented, not to mention the fact that he wasn't sure he'd be able to make it more than a few steps before losing his gut again. He stumbled a few steps, bumping into the other bed and immediately losing his balance and going down, landing on Dean. Dean, in turn, awoke with a start when Sam's weight came down on his legs and screamed ('like a girl', Sam would later recount).

"Don't puke on me." Dean warned, seeing Sam's condition and immediately putting together what must have taken place in the last few moments while he slept. He pulled his legs from under Sam's weight and stood, trying to pull Sam back to his feet. Why did the kid have to grow so much? It was a lot easier to maneuver his little brother when said brother was actually littler.

Sam sniffed, trying to get to his feet but every single inch of him ached and he wasn't sure what was up and what was down anymore. "I don't feel good." Sam whined, implying that Dean needed to make it all better. Dean always made things better, it was the one constant in Sam's life, the one thing he could depend on.

"I know you don't." Dean said in the most soothing voice he could muster under the circumstances, "It'll all be over soon, it'll be okay."

"I don't want to throw up again." Sam continued to whine, not caring how pathetic he sounded because however he sounded, he felt a thousand times worse, "Dean, I don't-"

Dean was barely able to shift out of the way before Sam started choking up foul smelling bile, his whole body shaking violently as the carpet was redecorated. "Christ, Sam."

"I'm sorry." Sam apologized weakly, an embarrassed flush marking his pale cheeks. The world spun around him and he felt tears in his eyes though he couldn't even focus enough to determine if they were falling or not. He could feel the blood rushing in his ears and spots filled his vision, and he groaned, putting a hand to his head. "I feel…"

Dean could see Sam growing increasingly unsteady and he lowered his brother to the bed, putting his hands on Sam's shoulders and asking, "What? Talk to me, Sam."

Sam mumbled something unintelligible in response and Dean's gaze narrowed, quickly making an inventory of Sam's condition: sweaty, weak, making no sense, glazed and unfocused eyes. This was not good. "Dude, you need a doctor."

"No." Sam whined, using the remainder of his strength to pull away from Dean and lay back on the bed, hoping to prevent himself from actually passing out because he felt like he was very close to it, "I'm fine."

"Yes, you're the picture of perfect health." Dean replied dryly, making a face when Sam rolled over and buried his face in the blanket. Dean's blanket. Dean's blanket that he would now be unable to use because there was no way in hell he was going to let himself catch whatever this virus was. "Are you going to puke again?" Dean asked, though he was already grabbing the trash can and bringing it closer just in case, because he had no intention of scrubbing bodily fluids out of the carpet and they couldn't afford to pay damages to the hotel room; hell, they could barely afford to stay the night in the hotel room.

"Yes." Sam muttered, raising his head just enough to look at his brother, "Not yet, but I will."

"Great." Dean replied with a sigh, taking a towel from the bathroom and tossing it on the floor over the mess Sam had made; at least he wouldn't have to see it and he could pretend it wasn't there. He walked back to the bed, pressing his hand against Sam's cheek, "You're roasting, Sam. You need to take something."

Sam only groaned in response, but Dean understood the message clearly; Sam had no intention of taking anything or ingesting anything for the rest of eternity. Dean couldn't blame him. He wasn't even the one sick but he didn't think he'd ever have an appetite again either. At a loss for how to make this situation better, Dean went back to basics. He walked into the bathroom and wet a washcloth with cold water, folding it over before laying it against Sam's exposed neck, frowning when Sam shivered beneath it.

"Cold." Sam moaned, trying to pull it away but unable to muster up the energy to actually bring his hand completely to his neck. "D'n, s'cold."

"You're burning up, Sammy, we need to get your fever down. Don't mess with it." Dean replied, running his hand over his face and into his hair. Every instinct was screaming at him to load Sam up into the car and bring him to a clinic to have a real doctor look at him. The kid was in bad shape, and without fluids he knew they would be facing dehydration soon with the puke/fever combo Sam was presenting. "I'm going to get the med kit from the car, we need to monitor your fever."

"Don't leave." Sam whined, "m'cold. I need a blanket."

"You need to not spontaneously combust." Dean retorted, grabbing the keys to the Impala, "I'll be back in twenty seconds, I'm just going right outside. Just lay here and try not to yak on my bed."

Sam mumbled something in response that Dean couldn't decipher, which was really worrying because he spoke fluent 'Sam-ese' and usually understood even the most incomprehensible things his brother said in varying stages of lucidity. He quickly darted out to the car, wincing when he heard Sam's loud retching start up again as he dug in the trunk for their medical supplies, and made it back to the room in record time. He was relieved to see that Sam had managed to grab the trash can in time and his bed had been spared, but it provided very little comfort now that he was getting a good look at Sam's deteriorating condition. Where his brother had looked pale before, now he looked positively grey. The sweat that had lined his face since they had been in the car earlier had dried up and the rings around his eyes were growing more and more pronounced every time Dean looked at them. With a worried sigh, Dean ran some water into a plastic cup and brought it to his brother.

"No." Sam said weakly, seeing the cup of water in Dean's hand. The look on his face led Dean to believe that if Sam had the energy, there would be plenty of expletives in the statement of how he was not about to drink anything, but Sam was just too tired to further protest.

Dean held it out anyway, coaxing, "You don't have to drink it, just rinse your mouth out. But when you can go more than ten minutes without revisiting your lunch, you're going to need to start drinking something, you're drying out on me."

Sam groaned miserably, but did take the cup and swish some water around in his mouth before spitting it out into the trash can that Dean was holding up for him. While he still felt like he just wanted to curl up and die, it was nice not to have that rancid taste in his mouth anymore.

Dean took the cup away and put it on the table between the two beds, then grimaced at the trash can. He was about to go rinse it out when he noticed Sam breathing heavily once more in a manner that was becoming very familiar to him, "You good?"

Sam winced, swallowing back acid that was threatening to rise, but gave Dean a thumb's up in response. Not wanting to take any chances, Dean quickly rinsed out the mess before hurrying back to Sam. Sam watched his brother with one dull eye open, feeling like he should be doing something to reassure Dean that he was okay and he would be fine, but unable to find the energy to even convince himself much less his skeptical and overly-observant brother. He must have started to doze off, because the next thing he knew, Dean was standing over him with a thermometer in hand telling him to open up. Too weak to protest, Sam did as told, gagging slightly just from having the cold glass object in his mouth but forcing his stomach to remain down at Dean's warning glare. He let his eyes close, and only managed to open them back halfway when he felt his brother pulling the thermometer out of his mouth a few minutes later.

"Damn it, Sammy." Dean sighed, looking at the tiny numbers where the mercury had risen to just above the 103 mark. Sam really needed something to bring the fever down, but Dean was hesitant to think that Sam would be able to hold down meds long enough for them to work. Glancing down at his brother, who was now dozing again and drooling on Dean's blanket, Dean contemplated his options. He could hope for the best, that the fever would disappear on its own, but he knew they would never be that lucky. He could give Sam a dose of Tylenol and hope it stayed down, but that was equally as unlikely. He could cover Sam in cold rags and towels and try to bring it down the old-fashioned way but with the way Sam was whining and shivering, he didn't think Sam would cooperate. Besides, he knew that the shivering and chills were just ratcheting up Sam's temperature more and he didn't want to make things worse. After weighing his options for a few minutes, he sighed and walked back to the car to get Sam's laptop. He had to figure out how long Sam would have to keep down the meds before they were effective and then figure out how to make Sam keep them down.

Ten minutes of internet research later, Dean shut the laptop and walked back to his brother, watching him for a few moments as he contemplated his next move. From everything he had read, Sam would need to keep down the pills for 20-30 minutes and Dean didn't think the kid would be able to keep anything down for 2-3 minutes, much less 20-30. He felt Sam's forehead again, muttering a quiet curse when he realized Sam felt even warmer than before. With a sigh, knowing this wasn't going to end well, he opened the bottle of Tylenol and shook out two pills, setting them on the table beside Sam's cup of water. He was really dreading this. He reached over to shake Sam awake, but hesitated and reached for the trash can instead, bringing it closer to the table where the medicine was laid out. If he got Sam sitting and drinking, it would be best to have something within arm's reach just in case things turned south.

Dean reached out and shook Sam's shoulder lightly, "Sammy?"

Sam moaned in response, not even bothering to crack open an eye.

"Sam!" Dean said sternly, shaking his brother's shoulder a little harder, "Wake up, Sammy, you need to take your medicine."

"M'not-" Sam grumbled, followed by gibberish that Dean could only assume was supposed to be a declaration that he was not going to take anything.

"You have to, Sammy." Dean coaxed, trying to be patient and compassionate though his patience was beginning to run thin and his worry was kicking into overdrive, "You're getting into the danger zone with your fever, you need to take something for it."

Sam mumbled something that sounded vaguely like a Top Gun reference, which could only be a response to Dean using the phrase 'danger zone', and then covered his head with his arms. Dean pulled Sam's arms away and attempted to pull his brother to a sitting position, "Come on, Sammy, just cooperate."

"M'not taking them." Sam grumbled tiredly, his hands pressed against his eyes as his head began to throb unmercifully again now that he was upright. He could take the puking or he could take the headache, but together they left him wanting to die. "M'tired."

"Once you take them, you can go back to sleep." Dean soothed, "I know you don't want to take them and you don't want to puke again, but you need to try."

Sam shook his head, then swayed alarmingly as the action completely destroyed his equilibrium. His eyes closed and he felt Dean's hands on his arms, steadying him. Slowly he opened them again to find Dean's face inches from his own, his expression calm though his eyes were filled with panic. It wasn't reassuring to Sam that Dean looked freaked out, Dean was always calm when it came to this sort of thing, but the room was fading in and out too much for Sam to worry about anything at all.

"Sammy!" Dean shouted when Sam's eyes closed, and he shook Sam's arms lightly, "Stay with me, Sam!" He relaxed marginally when Sam's eyes opened again, but was far from reassured by the vacant look present in Sam's expression. Sam's pale face was quickly becoming flushed with fever and Dean knew they needed to get the fever down before the situation went from bad to worse.

He pressed the pills into Sam's hand, instructing in a tone as close to their father's as he could manage, "Take the medicine, Sam. Now."

Sam whimpered, which only caused Dean's worry to increase because Sam never whimpered, but he did take the medication and followed it with a small sip of water. Dean glanced at the clock, making note of the time, and then said in the same strict voice, "Listen to me, Sam, you have to keep those pills down for at least twenty minutes. You are not going to puke, you hear me?"

Sam was silent, his stomach already churning painfully in an attempt to reject what he had just swallowed, but he nodded jerkily, as if to say he'd try.

"Look at me!" Dean instructed, waiting for Sam's tired eyes to meet his before continuing, "Twenty minutes. You can make it. You've already made it for one. Nineteen to go."

Sam only moaned in response, breathing shallowly and putting a hand against his stomach as if to steady it from the outside. He was far less confident than Dean, but if it would make him feel better, he would do his best to follow the rules. He could care less about the fever, but if the Tylenol could make a dent in his headache, he would at least feel human.

Dean watched Sam struggled to keep the pills down, highly concerned for the first three minutes where Sam really seemed to fight a battle of wills with himself, but after five minutes had passed Sam seemed to be relaxing the tiniest bit and Dean was feeling confident that they would be triumphant. After ten minutes, Sam had completely relaxed and Dean was starting to think his younger brother might fall back asleep. After seventeen minutes, though, Sam bolted upright and pressed his fist against his mouth, glancing between Dean and the clock with a look of panic on his face. "Three minutes, man, just hold it in for three more minutes."

Sam whimpered again, swallowing convulsively with his mouth still covered, his eyes pained and panicked. He didn't think he was going to make it, and he had to swallowed back as vomit surged into his throat. There was no way he'd be able to hold this off for another three minutes.

"Breathe through it, Sammy." Dean encouraged, "You're almost there."

Sam shook his head, and was about to reach for the trash can when Dean jumped to his feet, loudly and obnoxiously starting to sing "Dirty Deeds Done Dirty Cheap" by AC/DC. He had gotten halfway through the first verse when Sam lowered his hand from his mouth, his expression slowly morphing from 'agony' to 'what sort of drugs is my brother on?'. He managed to hold Sam's attention through the entire song, which Dean thought he had pulled off rather spectacularly with a bit of air guitar and drums, and when he finished he glanced at the clock, triumphantly grinning when he saw that the twenty minutes were up and the medicine should be absorbed.

"What the hell was that?" Sam asked, his voice weak and strained but the playful tone that he often used when he was amused by his brother's antics but trying to hide it still evident.

Dean motioned to the clock, then replied, "Effective."

Sam glanced at the clock, surprised to see that the required amount of time had passed as he realized Dean had been trying to distract him from feeling sick, and even more surprised that it worked. His mouth turned up in a slight smile as a surge of appreciation for his brother stirred within him, "Thanks."

Dean's 'chick flick' senses were tingling at the sappy expression that Sam now wore, and to curb any further girly moments, Dean sat opposite of his brother, placing a hand on Sam's forehead again. It wasn't any cooler, but that wasn't surprising since it would take some time for the pills to work. "You should get some more sleep."

Sam nodded, still feeling tired and achy and miserable and knowing that if he dwelled on how lousy he felt, he wouldn't even notice when the meds started working, like the 'a watched pot never boils' statement suggested. He rubbed his throbbing head and looked around for a moment in confusion, just now realizing he was on Dean's bed. He started to gear up to move back to his own bed, but Dean gently pushed him back into a laying position, as if he already knew what Sam was thinking. Of course, Sam realized, he probably did. Dean was awesome like that. "W'r you g'sleep?" Sam murmured tiredly, rolling to his side with his eyes closed as soon as his head hit the pillow.

"Don't worry about me." Dean replied quietly, covering Sam with a blanket, "Get some sleep. You'll feel better when you wake up."

Dean moved to sit at the table, opening the laptop and wishing he had a beer or something to drink. He wasn't planning on leaving his brother alone, though, so he pushed that desire away and pulled up the local news for Clinton, OK, where they had been headed towards before Sam had gotten sick. He knew he wouldn't be sleeping for awhile, not until he was sure Sam was on the mend, so the least he could do was prepare for their upcoming case.

He had only been sitting at the computer for half an hour when his head started to slightly ache. He rubbed at his forehead absentmindedly, slightly annoyed at the disturbance, and he was about to turn his attention back to the computer and research when Sam shifted, catching Dean's attention. Sam quickly settled back to sleep, but Dean studied his brother for a moment before rubbing his forehead again, hoping to hell that his headache was not connected to Sam's illness in any way, shape or form. The idea of spending 6+ hours in agony like Sam had made him want to douse himself in bleach. Had he washed his hands thoroughly? Had he finished any of Sam's food or drinks over the last few days?

Sam shifted again and Dean sighed, taking the bottle of Tylenol from the table and dry swallowing two pills. He normally wouldn't take meds for a minor headache, but if he was coming down with Sam's plague, he wanted the pills in before he was a feverish, puking mess. He was tempted to rustle up some pepto and chug the bottle as a preventative measure, but resisted the urge considering that part of his body wasn't bothering him at all. '_Yet'_ a tiny voice in the back of his head threatened, but Dean pushed the thought aside, not even wanting to consider the possibility. It was one thing, caring for Sammy when the kid was so sick, but he didn't not want the roles to be reversed, he didn't want Sam to see him so sick and weak, especially when the kid was already feeling so lousy. If he were to go down for the count, who would take care of Sam?

Sam's eyes fluttered open, and he tiredly pushed himself to a sitting position, relieved that the room wasn't quite as out of focus as it had been earlier. His stomach still felt sloshy and unsettled, and after a few seconds of deliberating if he was going to be sick again, his mouth began to water and he stood, swaying slightly.

"Sam?" Dean questioned, watching Sam waver ever so slightly as he stood. He rose to his feet, taking a step towards his brother in case Sam needed assistance.

"Bathroom." Sam stated plainly, not trusting himself to keep talking, as he took a few steps towards the bathroom. The floor didn't rush to meet his face, which Sam considered a win, so he brushed off Dean's hand when his brother moved to help him. He made it to the toilet with a few seconds to spare before his stomach rebelled once more, which was an improvement over the last several hours, though once he started heaving again the dizziness and lightheadedness came back tenfold. He crossed his arms over the toilet seat, resting his head against them as he panted breathlessly between dry heaves.

He didn't move as a washcloth was pressed to the back of his neck again, wanting to express his gratitude to Dean for putting up with all of this but not trusting his body to do anything other than repeat it's cycle of breathe/gag/pant/heave. He felt Dean reach over him to flush, and he made an indecipherable-to-anyone-but-Dean-noise in appreciation because it smelled really bad and he completely lacked the energy to do it for himself. He wasn't 100% sure, but Sam was pretty convinced that if he didn't have his arms to hold his head up, he wouldn't be able to do it at all on his own. After nearly twenty minutes of nonstop agonizing dry heaves mixed with the occasional appearance of bile or saliva that not only spilled from his mouth but also once from his nose, Sam finally felt like it was safe to remove his head from the porcelain throne and he clumsily pulled a few sheets of toilet paper off to wipe his nose and mouth before flushing and sinking back against the bathtub, not sure if he was completely done and too weak to move even if he was.

"Man, Sam, I'm getting worried here."

"M'fine."

"Clearly." Dean paused, then continued, "What do you look like when you're not fine?"

Sam didn't have the energy to argue, so instead he closed his eyes and rested his head on the wall next to the tub. He wanted to push Dean's hand away when Dean started feeling his forehead again and poking at his hands and fingers, but he was too tired to, though when Dean returned with the thermometer again, Sam turned his head away, not wanting anything anywhere near his mouth.

"Come on, Sammy. If you don't let me take care of you, I'm going to have to drag your ass to the ER. I think you're getting dehydrated."

"No." Sam moaned irritably, "G'way."

Dean exhaled loudly, his patience waning in favor of irritated concern, "I won't go away, someone needs to take care of you and you clearly aren't up for the task."

"M'fine."

"Then prove it." Dean demanded, shoving the thermometer in Sam's mouth when he opened it to protest. Sam blinked open an eye to glare at his brother, but Dean didn't seem to care one way or another what Sam's thoughts were on the subject.

The brothers sat in silence for several minutes until Dean reached over and plucked the thermometer from Sam's mouth, not looking entirely too pleased with the numbers it showed, "You're down to just over 101, but I would have thought the meds would have made a bigger difference by now."

"My headache isn't as bad." Sam offered as a semi-consolation, wanting to ease some of Dean's concern.

"I wish I knew what it was we're dealing with." Dean commented with a frown, "I don't think you run a fever with food poisoning...maybe the stomach flu? But I would think you'd be leaking at both ends if that were the case-"

"Ew."

"Well, it's true." Dean countered, slightly exasperated, "I don't think it's your appendix or anything-"

"No appendix." Sam said wearily, swallowing in an effort to soothe his aching throat, "Had it out."

"When?" Dean demanded. How could Sam have gotten his appendix removed without him knowing? He had been in charge of Sam's health for as long as they could remember, and he was sure he'd remember surgery. While he waited for Sam to respond, he tugged on Sam's shirt, looking for proof. Sure enough, there was a scar on his lower abdomen as well as a tiny scar at his belly button.

"Last year." Sam mumbled, "Stanford. Finals."

"You missed finals? And survived?" Dean quipped, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that his kid brother had surgery and he hadn't been there.

Sam shook his head slightly, "Waited until after finals. Damn thing nearly ruptured."

Dean was about to ask Sam if he was serious, if he had really put off important surgery for a test, but stopped because he realized that sounded exactly like something Sam would do. Someone should have been there, watching him and keeping him from being stupid like that. He vaguely wondered where Jessica had been and why she had let that go on.

"Didn't know it was my appendix." Sam continued, his voice raspy and speech slow as he tried to summon energy he just didn't have, "Thought it was stress. Jess was pissed."

"I'll bet she was. You didn't call." Dean said, the hurt in his voice evident though he had tried to conceal it. He still couldn't believe that Sam had gone through surgery without his big brother there.

Sam shrugged slightly, mumbling something that Dean couldn't hear even though the room was silent around them.

"Come again?"

"I was worried you wouldn't care." Sam admitted. It went without saying that part of 'if you walk out that door, don't come back' implied phone calls for minor surgeries as well as a place to stay over the Christmas holidays and semester breaks. If he had called and Dean had brushed him off, it would have been devastating. It was a lot easier to live with righteous anger than it was to possibly find out the one person you could always depend on loathed you.

Dean sighed, then pulled Sam in for a hug. He understood where Sam was coming from, but he would never have totally abandoned his brother like that. He had checked up on the youngest Winchester several times during the Stanford years and if Sam had needed him, he would have dropped everything to be there. He'd like to say their Dad would too, and up until the time Dad disappeared he would have said so, but now he wasn't so sure. Sam made a half-hiccup, half-burp sound and Dean pulled back slightly, warning, "Dude, keep it on the inside."

"I'm okay." Sam replied tiredly, resting his head against Dean's shoulder. He was completely spent, he didn't know if he even had the energy to hold himself upright at the moment. Earlier he had thought he missed Jessica's cuddling, but now that he'd been through this embarrassing, humiliating, degrading bout of whatever-the-hell-was-wrong-with-him he was glad that his big brother was around. No one made things better like Dean did, and no one was allowed to see him at this level of weakness except for Dean.

"I think you need a dictionary for your birthday." Dean retorted dryly, "So you can look up the proper definition of the words 'fine' and 'okay'. Clearly they don't teach vocabulary at your fancy college."

Sam snorted lightly, amused but not having a response for his brother. His stomach cramped and he groaned, pulling away from Dean in an attempt to find a position that wasn't quite as painful. Also, he wasn't totally sure he wasn't going to get sick again and didn't want to possibly toss his cookies on Dean if he was taken by surprise. He may trust Dean enough to show a bit of vulnerability in front of him, but he would never be okay with throwing up all over his brother as a grown man. He couldn't deny that it had happened before, but a 4 year old getting puke on his 8 year old brother was excusable and incredibly different from a 22 year old doing the same to a 26 year old.

"Are you going to hurl again?" Dean asked, studying Sam as his brother pulled away with a pained expression. He wasn't kidding when he said he was getting worried; he had never seen Sam this incapacitated from a simple illness, nor had he ever see Sam this sick in their lifetime.

Sam shivered, pondering Dean's question for a moment before nodding. He moved to where he was kneeling in front of the toilet again, putting an elbow on either side of the bowl and propping his head up with his hands. He felt absolutely miserable and the closer he got to actually getting sick, the more everything seemed to ache and throb. He shivered again with a low moan, spitting out the saliva pooling in his mouth while he waited for the next round of vomiting to begin. A few minutes passed without incident and the spasms in his stomach started to loosen up. He looked over at Dean, who was hovering in the doorway with an anxious look on his face, and muttered, "False alarm."

"Need help getting back to bed?" Dean offered, extending a hand to his weakened sibling, "Some fluids?"

"Bed." Sam responded wearily, allowing Dean to help him to his feet. He was thankful he did, because as soon as he was vertical his knees buckled and the sound of buzzing filled his ears. White spots clouded his vision, followed by black spots, and Dean's voice sounded so incredibly far away. He was vaguely aware that his brother was talking to him, but as he tried to make out Dean's words, the darkness enveloped him and he knew no more.

"Son of a bitch." Dean growled, kneeling next to his unconscious brother, his forehead creased with worry. This was not good; he should have listened to his gut instinct earlier when he first thought Sam needed a doctor. He carefully placed two fingers at Sam's neck, trying to gauge his pulse, only to find it rapid but steady. Carefully, as to not hurt himself or his brother, Dean found strength he did not know he possessed and managed to lift his brother and stagger to the nearest bed without losing his precarious grip on the larger man.

Sam was feverish again, and though he couldn't get an actual number because using the thermometer would require Sam's cooperation, Dean could tell just by touching Sam's skin that it had risen since last checked. This sucked out loud, because it was still too soon to give him another dose of meds. With a heavy sigh, Dean walked back into the bathroom, grabbing all of the towels and washcloths and running them under cold water. If the pills weren't going to keep Sam's fever under control, he'd have to rely on other methods to do so.

It took 47 minutes for Sam to finally blink open his eyes, and by the time he did, Dean was a tightly wound bundle of nerves. He knew how dangerous it was to cross the line into dehydration and he knew it was a bad sign that Sam had passed out. He had fully expected Sam to come to within minutes, and the more that time passed, the more antsy Dean felt. There had been several moments where he had contemplated hauling Sam's gigantic butt to the ER and even once when he had thought of calling an ambulance. Still, they had no money and no insurance and he couldn't resort to the professionals unless it was a dire emergency. He just wished there was a clear cut sign that flashed 'emergency' when that line was crossed.

"D'n?" Sam asked groggily, blinking his eyes open for a fraction of a second before squeezing them shut again, the light causing the light throbbing in his head to venture into migraine territory. He whimpered, dragging his hand over his eyes, and tried to get his brain to work well enough to tell Dean to shut off the lights. Dean must have understood, though, because even through his closed eyes the room darkened and he was able to blink his tired eyes open.

"Sam?" Dean asked, "Is that better?"

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but everything was getting jumbled from his brain to his mouth and without speaking he closed it again, moaning and shifting on the bed, feeling rotten, confused and scared because he didn't know what was happening to him. He could make out Dean's outline in the darkness and he reached for his brother's hand and squeezed it tightly, trying to convey what his minimally functioning brain not output.

"Dude, you're scaring me. Talk to me, Sammy."

Pain flared again, resonating through Sam's skull with a force that left him actually crying out from the intensity, and soon Dean was grabbing his shoulders, shaking him gently and demanding answers. Trying his best to calm Dean, Sam was finally, through a great deal of concentration and frustration, able to form a coherent sentence.

"Head hurts, hurts to talk."

"Your head hurts to talk?" Dean questioned, "Like, you have a sore throat? Or you have a headache?"

"Yes." Sam replied, because in all actuality both were true. He rubbed his hands against his forehead, then pinched the bridge of his nose with a wince, "Tylenol?"

"Not for another hour." Dean replied apologetically, "But if you think you can keep it down, I can give you some of the good stuff."

Sam laid still for a moment, gauging his body and wondering if it was worth sacrificing some of the good pills they usually reserved for serious injuries while also contemplating if it would be possible to keep down anything at all. His stomach no longer felt on the verge of puking like it had felt for most of the day, and it was tender but not aching. He propped himself up on his elbows, asking weakly, "Water?"

Dean enthusiastically retrieved a cup of water for Sam, relieved that his brother was at least interested in fluids. The google research he had done while Sam was unconscious had said that after 8 hours of vomiting and refusing fluids that it was time to see a doctor. They were getting pretty close to that threshold, and it was a huge relief to see that Sam was making some improvements, despite how small and slow progress was coming along.

"Small sips," Dean reminded his brother, trying to be helpful although he knew Sam already knew not to gulp it down. He held the cup steady while Sam drank a few small sips, and then he pulled the cup away and put it on the table, "If you can keep that down for a bit, you can have some more."

"If it goes well, I want the good drugs." Sam groaned, becoming more coherent and aware of his aching joints and muscles the longer he was awake. "Every inch of me hurts."

"Do you think it's the flu?" Dean asked, still trying to figure out exactly what was wrong with the kid because it was bothering him to no end to not know, "Achy body and fever usually equals flu."

"It doesn't feel like the flu." Sam replied, quietly, "I don't know what it feels like, really. It's probably food poisoning. It just sucks."

Though he wasn't going to vocalize it, Dean was relieved to hear Sam say that it was probably food poisoning since they rarely ate the same meal and food poisoning wasn't contagious. He loved his brother dearly and would never _not_ take care of Sammy, but he desperately wanted to avoid this illness at all costs. Dean checked his cell phone for the time, then asked, "How's the water settling?"

"Okay, for now." Sam responded, pushing himself further into a sitting position. His head did not appreciate the movement, but he was more worried about testing his sensitive stomach and was relieved that the change in position did not bring a wave of nausea as it had done earlier. "I can drink some more water, I think."

"Give it a few more minutes." Dean suggested, not wanting to push their luck, "I need to check your fever, anyway. I've been trying to cool you down but you're still pretty warm."

Sam took the thermometer from Dean and stuck it under his tongue without protest. The more Dean took control of the situation and took care of him, the easier Sam found it to slip back into their old routine from childhood; Dean was the caretaker, the one in charge, and Sam had to fall in line. He actually felt comforted by the predictability and familiarity of Dean's caregiving, though he would never tell Dean because that would certainly go to Dean's head and inflate his already gigantic ego even further. He let his eyes slip closed, enjoying the relief that the simple motion gave his aching eyes and head, and when Dean pulled out the glass device a few minutes later, he mumbled, "What does it say?"

"102.5." Dean replied, feeling extremely frustrated that his brother's temperature refused to stay anywhere near normal. "How's your stomach?"

"Staying where it is supposed to." Sam answered, trying to fully sit. He gasped as a jolt of pain shot through his abdomen, and hissed lightly. "I am so freaking sore."

"I'm getting the pills." Dean decided, hating to see Sam in pain and wanting to do something that would help ease his brother's discomfort, "Do you need anything else? Something to eat?"

"I'm not ready for food yet." Sam said, making a face at the mere thought, "Maybe later."

Dean reappeared by Sam's side a few moments later, two tiny pills in one hand and a fresh cup of water in the other. "Bottoms up, Sammy."

"Thanks." Sam replied, taking the pills and following them with a small sip of water, "God, I hope this works."

"You and me both." Dean agreed, taking the cup from Sam and placing it on the table, "You sure you don't need a doctor?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." Sam replied, the ghost of a smile on his face. He didn't need a doctor to take care of him, he had the best caregiver in the world already. Dean knew him better than anyone in the universe and as long as his brother was by his side, Sam was in good hands. "I've got all I need."

"Again with the chick-flick." Dean teased, sitting down beside his younger brother, "You turn into a girl with you're sick, Samantha."

"Shut up, jerk."

"Stop being a girl, bitch." Dean retorted, finally starting to relax. Now that Sam was medicated and seemed to be getting more and more coherent and better, it felt as if a weight had been lifted off his chest. Within moments, both brothers were asleep, propped up against the headboard with Sam's head leaning against Dean's shoulder.

-Please leave a review if you enjoyed!-


	2. Chapter 2

**I couldn't resist adding another chapter. Sam so generously shared his plethora of germs with his brother. A bit more H/C where a sick Sam is trying to help a sick Dean, but Dean isn't quite willing to give up his big brother rights to stay in control. **

Sam blinked his eyes open, trying to figure out what had pulled him away from his much-needed sleep. He looked around the room in confusion, trying to remember exactly where he was and what was going on. Everything felt fuzzy and disconnected, which he attributed to the throbbing in his head. Was he hurt? Were they on a hunt? Where was Dean? He sat up, groaning when the room seemed to spin slightly at the movement. Did he have a concussion? A deep ache in his muscles caused his memory and awareness to come flooding back; he had been sick, really sick. Well, that explained why his mouth was dry and tasting like death. He looked to the table beside the bed, relieved to see a cup of water still there, and he reached out for it with a shaky hand.

He felt disconnected from his body, like he was floating above where he actually sat, which normally would concern him though now he found it mildly amusing. Once he realized this, he remembered he had been taking the good painkillers, which meant he wasn't really floating, he was just high. At least that explained the dizziness and disorientation; prescription painkillers always knocked him out. So with that in mind, why was he awake when he could be in a peaceful, drug-induced slumber? And where was Dean?

Dean. There was no way Dean would have left him alone when he was zoned out and sick, so where was his brother? Was he in trouble? The thought alone was enough to get Sam to his feet, and he stumbled out of bed, a small burst of adrenaline allowing his body to move despite his achy and tense muscles. A sound caught his attention, a familiar sound that he had become well-acquainted with himself over the last 12 hours, and followed the noise, groaning softly when his spaced out brain finally put the puzzle together. Dean wasn't with him because Dean was in the bathroom. Dean was in the bathroom, because Dean was sick.

Sam winced, thinking of possible ways this could play out. One scenario was that Dean would allow Sam to put him to bed and sleep it off. Unlikely. The next scenario involved Sam somehow managing to care for Dean like Dean had done for him just hours ago. Also unlikely. The most likely scenario was that Dean would push Sam away and blame him for getting him sick in the first place, suffer alone and get angry any time Sam tried to help in any way. Great, this would be loads of fun.

Sam trudged to the bathroom slowly, knocking lightly on the shut door, "Dean?"

"You need something?" Dean called out, his voice hoarse.

Leave it to Dean to still be playing big brother when he was going through the stomach virus of the century. Sam sighed, turning the doorknob and pushing the door open slightly. At least it hadn't been locked. The smell of sickness caused Sam to reel back slightly, his own body reminding him that he wasn't quite well yet himself, and he replied, "No, I'm good. Do _you_ need anything?"

"I'm fine, man."

Which would have been more believable if Dean hadn't followed that statement by burying his head in the toilet again as soon as he finished speaking. Sam inched closer, not sure if he was going to encounter 'too tired to protest' Dean, or perhaps 'If I'm miserable, you have to be too' Dean. His least favorite was 'I'm going to pretend to be fine even though it's clear I'm not' Dean, which was the persona Dean usually adopted when unwell. That particular version of Dean usually ended up feeling ten times worse because he was too proud to admit he needed meds or rest and further wore himself into the ground until he was too sick to protest anymore.

Sam squatted beside his brother and rested his hand on Dean's shoulder, waiting until his brother had heaving to ask, "How long?"

"Dunno. Maybe twenty minutes?" Dean grumbled, spitting into the toilet and reaching up to flush, "I know Dad always taught us to share, but you really could have kept this to yourself."

Sam glanced around the room, hoping to find a clean washcloth or something that he could use to cool Dean down, he could feel the heat radiating off his his brother through his shirt, but was disappointed to find that they had all already been used. He didn't want to use anything that Dean had used on him earlier, not knowing what had bodily fluids on them and what did not. Even though cross-contamination wasn't really an issue now, it was still gross.

"Would you be okay in here alone for a few minutes while I went to the lobby to try to get us some more towels and whatnot?" Sam asked Dean quietly, feeling guilty that he was already planning to abandon Dean, even if it was just for a few minutes.

Dean snorted, replying tiredly, "I was doing just fine without you; I don't need someone to hold my hand, I'm not three."

Sam stood, his legs aching from the position he had been in beside Dean, and stretched slightly. Ignoring Dean's negativity, he asked, "Do you need anything before I go? Water? Some meds? Do you want me to run to the pharmacy and pick you up something?"

"I don't need any of that crap." Dean retorted, pushing away from the toilet and rising on shaky legs, "I'm fine." Seeing Sam's raised eyebrow, Dean conceded, "Well, not 'fine', but I will be. My immune system isn't as delicate as yours, this was probably the worst of it."

Neither of them really believed that, but Sam didn't want to argue so he instead just shrugged and returned to the main room to slip on some shoes to trek down to the lobby. His eyes burned as a reminder that his body was craving rest, but Dean was more important than his body's desire to shut off until it had recouperated. He knew Dean would do the same if the roles were reversed (as he had more times than Sam could even remember) so he tiredly trudged towards the main office.

Once Sam shut the door behind him, Dean exhaled loudly and allowed himself to sink down onto the bed in a defeated pose. He had hoped he wouldn't catch Sam's virus (now that he knew it was, indeed, a virus) and with every passing second he felt worse and worse. He knew from watching Sam deteriorate that it wouldn't reach rock bottom until about 6 hours in, which made Dean want to curl up and die right then to not reach that point. He already felt lousy and this was just starting. His stomach gurgled loudly and he put his hand over it with a scowl. He hated being sick, absolutely despised it, and to make things worse his brother would be hovering over him for the next however many hours until it passed. He didn't need an audience for his death, especially one who was going to be fussing over him any chance possible.

Another gurgle disturbed his angsty musing and he rose to his feet with a sigh, deciding it would be best to be in the bathroom already when it was time to start puking again. He had desperately hoped there wouldn't be an 'again', but with every passing second he knew that had been a pipe dream. Stumbling into the filthy bathroom, Dean turned the faucet on the sink on and splashed some cold water on his face. He lifted his head and looked at himself in the mirror, then at the room around him. Thank God he had sprung for the nicer hotel room, because it was now a complete mess and he could just imagine how worse it would have been if they had stayed in their typical seedy hotel.

He spit a mouthful of saliva into the sink basin, knowing if he swallowed, it would be his undoing. As it was, it wouldn't be long before he was once again praying to the porcelain altar and he didn't want to bring on that misery before it was absolutely necessary. He contemplated reaching over and locking the door to the bathroom to keep out a specific pesky younger brother, knowing Sam would only hover once his stomach started trying to escape from his body again. His hand was on the knob when he changed his mind, though, envisioning his brother pounding on the door mixing with the pounding already taking place in his head. No, definitely not locking the door. Sam tended to panic easily when Dean was in less than optimal health (apparently big brothers aren't allowed to get sick) and he also tended to overreact when Dean shut him out. It would definitely be bad for his headache if he locked Sam out. He wasn't leaving it open because he wanted to know Sam was nearby for comfort, because that was something that only wusses and girls did and he definitely didn't need someone to hold his hand while he was sick. No, he was doing it just for Sam's sanity. He wasn't needy, he was a good big brother. _Right_.

Dean heard the door open, and waited for Sam's voice to announce himself. When he didn't, he leaned out the doorway to see if it was his brother who had arrived or if there was trouble. While he was relieved to see Sam, who apparently couldn't speak because he had his teeth around the edge of a packet of crackers that he was carrying along with an armload of other things that Dean probably didn't need, he had also angered his stomach, which was now twisting and cramping like something was trying to break free. He lunged back towards the toilet, but missed his target and instead covered the floor in yesterday's meal. There was no time to dwell on his lousy aim as he continued to heave, his abdominal muscles feeling like they were being ripped apart every time they convulsed. The third wave of sickness was really the final nail in the proverbial coffin, a seemingly neverending stream of putrid waste flowing from his body until he was pretty sure he was going to suffocate from lack of oxygen. Once it had stopped, he found himself nearly hyperventilating as he tried to catch his breath. He was so out of sorts that he didn't even realize Sam had come in the bathroom until his brother had pulled him into a sitting position and forced his head between his knees. Sam was saying words that were obviously meant to comfort, but Dean was so disoriented at the moment that he couldn't even make out what the words were.

As the world righted itself around him, Dean put his hands down on the floor to push himself up, desperately wanting to change his filthy clothes and take a shower before his stomach assaulted him again. Unfortunately, his hand met a warm, wet puddle and he looked up at Sam with a scandalized expression, "Dude, you made me sit in my own puke?"

"It's not exactly a huge room, Dean. You were going to pass out."

"No I wasn't." Dean argued, though he knew Sam was right. But gross! The moisture that he could now feel seeping through his jeans made him want to gag again, but he forced his stomach down and pulled himself shakily to his feet. He felt light-headed at first, but his head cleared quickly. As he looked around the mess he had created, he suddenly felt a surge of embarrassment. He couldn't believe Sam was here, witnessing this. He never displayed weakness so openly, and was ashamed that someone had been an audience to him when he was so gross and miserable.

Sam reached over and put a hand on Dean's forehead, seemingly unphased by the mess of the room or Dean's embarrassment, and nodded in approval, "You're not warm. That's a good sign. Do you think you could drink some water?" Sam motioned to the cup he had placed on the ledge of the sink with a hopeful expression.

"Do you want me to puke on you?" Dean grumbled, though he knew it was completely fair that Sam was asking after all of the pestering he himself had done on the same subject earlier. "I'm going to take a shower. Get lost."

"Leave the door open." Sam instructed, tempted to ask if Dean needed help with anything but knowing it would just piss Dean off and he'd decline (probably with a snappy insult), "And if you need anything, just yell."

"Thanks, Florence Nightingale." Dean retorted, pulling his shirt over his head and using the fabric to wipe his face clean. He balled up the shirt and tossed it on the floor by the sink, then put his hand to his jeans, "Seriously, get lost. You don't need to watch me undress, you perv."

"Nice." Sam commented, slightly exasperated by Dean's moodiness though it was to be expected. He walked back into the bedroom, taking a few more sips of his own water in an attempt to start re-hydrating himself. He still felt weak, thirsty and slightly disoriented, not to mention he was still sporting a killer headache. He knew these were all signs of dehydration, and was doing his best to hydrate, but he really didn't want to push his luck with ingesting things; he could only imagine how tense and miserable (and disgusting) things would get if they were forced to _share_ the bathroom.

The shower started and Sam listened quietly to make sure Dean didn't fall or hurt himself while getting in, knowing how weak and dizzy he had felt earlier when he was constantly turning himself inside out. Once sure Dean was okay in the shower, he thought he should do something about the mess in the bathroom. Honestly, he really didn't want to go near it, but it was something that had to be done and he knew that if Dean did it himself, it wouldn't help his troubled stomach at all. Grabbing one of the clean towels he had gotten from housekeeping, he took a few breaths to steady his own barely-behaving stomach and set to work wiping clean the floor, toilet and the sides of the toilet from Dean's mishap. He would have liked to have some bleach, or perhaps just some air freshener, and gloves to make the task less revolting, but he had to make do with what he had. The smell was overpowering and he had to stop twice to retreat to the main room for some fresh, well, fresher, air just to finish.

Sam balled up the soiled towel and shoved it in a corner, along with the other washcloths and towels that had been strewn around the room, then stood at the sink for a moment, bent slightly over it as he willed the water he had been drinking to stay down. He typically wasn't very squeamish, but all things considered he wasn't surprised that his own digestive system was being sensitive to the situation. He spit a few times then swallowed hard when he felt the familiar pressure rising in his throat. He clamped his mouth shut, breathing deeply through his nose, which turned out to be a mistake because of the stale stench of vomit that still clung to the air. He may have still been able to hold everything down if Dean hadn't picked that exact moment to start dry heaving from the other side of the shower curtain. It was just too much, and Sam gripped both sides of the sink as the water he had been sipping off and on shot up like a rocket, warm and acidic. He shuddered, head still bowed as he waited to see if there would be more. His aching muscles protested from the tension and without even realizing it, he had begun to shake slightly throughout his body. More water forced its way out and Sam shuddered at the bitter taste left in his mouth. He was never going to eat or drink anything again, he was sure of it.

"Sam?" Dean called out worriedly from the shower, "You okay, dude?"

Sam fully intended to say yes, he was fine, but instead his brother was answered with a round of dry heaving. The shower stopped and Sam managed to choke out, "I'm good, finish your shower."

"I thought you were feeling better?" Dean asked in a concerned tone, completely ignoring his brother's response. He reached out of the shower for the towel and clothes Sam had left hanging up for him to use, and quickly dried off, big brother instincts urging him to check on his brother.

Sam continued to grip the sink, on the verge of being sick again but trying to prevent it, and attempted to reassure his brother, "I am, I don't know what happened."

"I'll tell you what happened," Dean said, opening the shower curtain and eyeing his brother and the cleaned room, "You overdid it, you pushed yourself too hard and now you're paying the price for it. You…" Dean stopped, making a disgusted face at his younger brother, "You hurled in the sink? The toilet is only, like, 8 inches away. Gross, Sam."

"That's gross?" Sam retorted, looking at Dean with an incredulous expression, "I just cleaned up your vomit from the floor. _That_ is gross."

"I'm just saying, dude, you could have planned that better."

"I could have stuck my head in the shower and puked all over you." Sam replied petulantly, not really annoyed that his brother was teasing him because it meant Dean couldn't been feeling too incredibly rotten, but playing the part anyway. If they could joke about this, maybe it wouldn't seem so bad.

Dean pulled his t-shirt on, snorting at Sam's response, "And I would have repaid the favor." He rubbed his stomach, which was still rumbling and churning like something was trying to claw a path out, then glanced in his brother's direction, "Let's stop talking about this, it's not helping my stomach."

"Agreed." Sam said with a barely-stifled yawn. He walked back into the main room, sorting through the supplies he had found from various vending machines, the car and the hotel lobby, trying to determine what would be an effective first start to getting Dean on the road to recovery. He laid out a pack of plain crackers and a bottle of sprite on the table, knowing neither of them were to that stage yet, and piled the clean towels on a chair to get them out of the way. He had found a nearly empty bottle of pepto in the trunk of the impala that was only a month past the expiration date, and he tossed them onto Dean's bed, thinking that it may prevent things from getting too out of control. He also moved the trash can closer to Dean's bed, thinking that there was more of a chance that Dean would find himself unable to make it to the bathroom than himself at this stage. He had rinsed the thermometer off, but hadn't been able to find anything to sanitize it, but it would have to do if Dean started running a fever.

"What's this?" Dean asked, dropping tiredly onto his bed and lifting up the bottle of medication.

"A check for a million dollars." Sam retorted sarcastically, "What does it look like?"

Dean tossed it onto Sam's bed, "You take it, you need it more than me."

"No, I don't." Sam argued, "I'm nearly over this thing, you're still at the start. Just take it."

Dean shook his head, laying back against the pillow with his arms crossed beneath his head, "Seriously, man, you're obviously still feeling like crap on toast, and you've been throwing up all day. You definitely need it more than I do."

"Just take the damn medicine!" Sam huffed, throwing the bottle back at Dean. It bounced off Dean's stomach, causing the older man's face to take on a green tinge as he groaned, rubbing his tender belly with one hand while using the other to give Sam the finger. In response, Sam gave Dean his best bitchface and added smugly, "This is exactly why you need it."

"Because you're going to be throwing things at me?"

"Stop being a dick and take it."

"No. You take it."

"No."

"Well I'm not taking it."

"Neither am I."

The room lapsed into silence, with Dean staring at the ceiling and trying to ignore his ailing body and Sam laying in his own bed, fighting sleep.

"You should just take it." Sam mumbled after about ten minutes of tense silence, "You don't have to be a dick and it's not like I don't know you need it."

"I don't need it."

"I just cleaned a bathroom that begs to differ."

Dean ignored his brother, feeling more than a little embarrassed that Sam had cleaned up his mess even though his little brother was still in rough shape. That wasn't how things were supposed to work, he was supposed to be the person taking care of Sam, not the other way around. He hated to feel like he had to rely on others, and he hated showing weakness to anyone, even if it was his brother who knew him as well as he knew himself. His stomach still felt like it was in some sort of torture device, but at the moment he didn't think he was in danger of losing any more bodily fluids at the moment, so he glanced in Sam's direction, and ended their conversation by saying, "I'm going to try to get some sleep. I suggest you do, too."

Sam didn't respond, having no need to because apparently today when Dean decided something, there was no room for discussion (not that this was new or any different than usual). He wasn't opposed to sleep, perhaps it would help his killer headache recede to a tolerable level. He laid still for a few moments, but then sat up. His mouth was so incredibly dry, it felt like his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. He eyed the water he had been sipping on with distaste; it was too soon to forget how rancid it was when it came back up and he didn't trust his body enough to behave. Instead, he picked up the cup and walked to the bathroom, taking a sip and swishing it in his mouth for a few seconds before spitting it out into the sink.

"You okay?" Dean asked sleepily from his bed, one eye watching Sam's every move. "Sammy?"

Sam smiled slightly; even when Dean was in a rotten mood and feeling like crap, he still couldn't turn off his big brother button. He turned on the faucet, filling up the cup again, and responded to his brother, "Yeah, just rinsing my mouth out. It feels like I've been eating sand."

Dean didn't respond, and Sam repeated the process of watering his mouth three more times before the urge to drink was too strong and he gave up, deciding to try and get some sleep like his brother was. By the time he walked back to his bed, Dean was already snoring. He quietly made his way to his brother's bed, resting his hand against Dean's forehead to check his temperature. Dean still didn't feel particularly warm, but then again, Sam was shivering with chills which possibly made his hands unreliable judges. He remembered once when he was suffering with the flu at Stanford, Jess had been convinced he was running a gigantic fever, because her hands were always chilly which made him feel hotter to her than he actually was. She had then used her lips to feel his forehead, which she said was something her mother used to do when she was a child. Glancing down at his brother, he frowned, shaking his head. There was no possible way he was going to kiss Dean's forehead for any reason, fever or not.

Sam sat back down on his bed, wondering how far away a pharmacy was; maybe he could pick up one of those thermometers you stick in your ear. Less invasive and more sanitary, which would be a bonus since apparently being confined in a car all day makes dooms you to catching each other's germs. He looked carefully at Dean, thinking that if Dean were running warm, they'd need to get that under control to help prevent dehydration. After all, Dean had been the one drilling "fluids, fluids, fluids" into his head all day.

He inched closer to his brother, puckering his lips slightly, but then shook his head and backed away. If Dean caught him doing this, he'd likely get a punch in the face. It would be easier to go buy the ear thermometer or just wake Dean up to take his temperature. Sam sighed, an internal battle raging inside him. He was exhausted and still a bit woozy, he didn't want to go to the store (what if he wrecked Dean's baby?) and they didn't have money to waste on an expensive fancy thermometer (that's why they owned a cheap, old-fashioned one to begin with). There really was no other way to know for sure that Dean wasn't roasting. He hovered over Dean again, scrunching up his nose at the stupidity of this (not only the action, but his anxiety over doing it to begin with) and then slowly leaned closer, not wanting to do this but feeling like he had to. He was about three inches away from Dean's forehead when his brother's eyes snapped open. Sam jumped back as if he'd been burned, embarrassed that he had been caught and not knowing what sort of reaction to expect from Dean.

Dean, on the other hand, only raised an eyebrow and asked, "Were you about to kiss me? Are you delirious?"

"I was checking to see if you had a fever." Sam explained hesitantly, "My hands...well, I just wanted to make sure you didn't have one."

"By kissing me?" Dean questioned, a hint of a smile on his face, "Are you sure it's not you who is feverish?"

Sam looked away with a scowl, thinking that he should have just gone to the store and saved his pride because he was fairly certain Dean would be bringing this up for awhile. He shrugged slightly, "It was something Jess used to do. It's not funny."

The mention of Sam's dead girlfriend was enough to put a damper on Dean's good spirits and his face fell slightly. The kid had been trying to do a good thing, even if that good thing was slightly creepy and totally unnecessary, and how did he respond? By making him thinking about Jessica, of all people. Wanting to make it up to Sam, he cleared his throat, and once he had Sam's attention he motioned towards his head, "Well, do I have a fever or not?"

"Give it a rest, Dean."

"Hey, it was your idea. No one's stopping you."

Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed the thermometer off of the table, poking Dean's lip with it until he opened up, "I was just doing it that way so you could sleep. Next time I'll wake you up, jerk."

"Bitch." Dean replied automatically, his voice muffled by the thermometer sticking out of his mouth.

Sam eyed the clock, watching to see when he could remove the thermometer, and asked, "How's your stomach?"

Dean held out his hand, wobbling it back and forth to indicate that it was 'so-so'. It hurt, he couldn't deny that, but he didn't feel as nauseated and actually sick as he did earlier. When Sam had started throwing up, it lasted for hours and hours. If Dean could get by with just what he'd experienced so far, he'd consider himself lucky and forgive his body for getting infected to begin with.

Sam plucked the thermometer from Dean's mouth and studied the numbers, which was harder than it sounded because they were sliding in and out of focus. He really needed to get some sort of electrolyte drink or something to rebalance his system. Finally, he was able to make out the reading, and he tossed the thermometer on the table, "You're normal." he grinned, adding, "Temperature-wise, at least."

"Good, now take yours." Dean instructed, watching Sam's tired and shaky movements. The younger man had never gotten his temperature back to normal earlier, even with medication, and it was clear that Sam was getting more dehydrated instead of less.

Sam looked like he wanted to protest, but instead he rolled his eyes and grabbed the thermometer, sticking it in his mouth and laying back against his pillow. It was time for another dose of Tylenol, which he wasn't going to bother with if he wasn't still feverish. It had done little to improve his headache and he wasn't feeling up to ingesting anything if he didn't absolutely have to. Besides, it's not like Dean would let him just not do it, it wasn't worth the energy to protest.

"This really sucks, man." Dean groaned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and rising to his feet, "I hate when I'm sick, I hate when you're sick. This just blows."

Sam nodded, not really having anything to contribute to that sentiment other than he totally agreed. Grabbing the thermometer with his fingers so it wouldn't fall out of his mouth, he suggested, "You should try to get some more sleep. Promise I won't try to kiss you again."

"Don't talk while that's in your mouth, you know better." Dean scolded lightly, though he did sit back down on the bed, "I just can't get comfortable. Everything-"

"Everything hurts." Sam supplied, knowing exactly how Dean felt. A quick glance at the clock told him he could read the thermometer now, but before he had a chance to hold it up to the light, Dean had snatched it and was checking the results.

Dean frowned, surprised and disheartened to see Sam's temperature still hovered between 101-102, he had hoped it would have started dropping by now. "You need more meds." he told his younger brother, and was about to go retrieve them when Sam stood and beat him to it.

"You need to go back to bed." Sam retorted, taking the bottle of Tylenol and unscrewing the cap. He knew Dean wouldn't let it go until he took the pills, so despite not really wanting to, he swallowed them down with a small sip of water. He just hoped he wouldn't regret it later.

Satisfied that there was nothing else he could be doing, Dean did lay down again, rolling onto his side and closing his eyes. His head was starting to throb, but he didn't want to attempt to take anything until he was sure that the vomiting part was done with. As if his body could hear his thoughts, his stomach gave a jolt and he wearily pulled himself to his feet, muttering, "Here we go again."

Sam gave his brother a sympathetic smile, but stayed in bed. It was easier to care for Dean after the action started; it was a lot harder for Dean to turn him down at that point. If he tried to do anything now, Dean would just get irritated and send him away. This time, Dean didn't even bother shutting the door before he dropped to his knees and waited for it to begin. Sam sat up, glancing in Dean's direction before walking to the floor where the nearly-empty Pepto bottle had fallen. Perhaps after this round of sickness, Dean would be more open to Sam's idea of trying medicine. The minute he heard Dean start to gag, Sam grabbed a few washcloths from the table and walked into the bathroom, setting the medicine bottle on the sink and turning on the water to wet the cloth.

Dean was pretty sure he was going to die right there on the bathroom floor, a heap of sweat and vomit, and that when they did the autopsy they'd find that he had puked up every single last internal organ he possessed. It had to be, otherwise it would have stopped by now. He hadn't eaten enough in the last week to equal what was being forced out now. He could feel Sam's presence, but was too caught up in trying not to fall face-first into the toilet to acknowledge him. He shuddered and sputtered as a chunk of something got caught in his throat, choking him slightly until Sam had thumped him enough times on the back to dislodge it plus bring up even more of Dean's insides. Something cold and wet was placed on the back of his neck, causing Dean to moan softly in appreciation. His brother was a saint, he had taught the younger man well.

"I'm pretty sure I just threw up toenails." Dean croaked, leaning up to flush, "This is insane."

"Tell me about it." Sam muttered in sympathy, remembering that feeling all too well from just mere hours ago. He gestured towards the bottle sitting on the sink, adding, "You might feel better if you'd just take the pink stuff."

"I think I will." Dean agreed, surprising both of them. Before he could take the bottle or stipulate that he wanted to wait a few minutes for his body to settle, the lower part of his gut made a gurgling sound, causing Dean to look up at Sam in confusion, "Dude, did you have any...other...problems that I don't know about?"

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, "I mean, my throat is a bit sore, but that's to be expected."

"No, like, other bathroom problems." Dean asked before letting out a curse and clutching his lower abdomen as a fierce cramp tore through him, "You know, the kind that have you running to the bathroom for a different reason."

Finally, comprehension dawned on Sam's face, replaced quickly with concern, "No, I didn't. Do you-are you-do you want me to leave?"

"For the love of all that is holy, yes." Dean replied, motioning rapidly towards the door.

Taking his cue, Sam made a hasty retreat, pausing for just a second to say, "Yell if you need something."

The door slammed shut behind him and Sam cringed sympathetically at the noises that soon followed. He was more than happy to leave that one solely to Dean. Tense and worried about his brother, himself and the possibility that one or both of them might need a doctor and neither were really in good shape to be driving, Sam paced the room for a few minutes. Being vertical was agony to his aching head and lightheadedness, but the traces of nausea he felt while laying virtually disappeared while he was upright. Too bad there wasn't a position he could lay in that would satisfy both ailments. He heard the toilet flush, and he walked to the door, knocking softly, "You okay, Dean?"

"Give me a few more minutes." Dean groaned, his entire digestive system gurgling unhappily. There was a moment of silence, then Dean called out weakly, "Can you bring me the trash can, too?"

"On my way." Sam called back, concern and sympathy mounting. Even without a fever to hurry dehydration along, if Dean had it coming out both ways he would be losing a lot of fluids. He had to find a way to convince Dean to drink something to try to prevent drying up. He opened the bathroom door, trying to pretend like he wasn't reeling from the stench because the last thing Dean needed right now was to be any more embarrassed than he undoubtedly already was.

Dean gratefully took the plastic can, setting it on his lap while he squirmed uncomfortably, "Thanks, Sammy." he croaked out, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand to get rid of the sweat that was accumulating on his brow. His stomach clenched again and he jerked his head towards the door in dismissal; he didn't want to be doing any of this business with an audience and there was nothing Sam could do to help anyway.

Taking the hint, Sam retreated and closed the door behind him, unsurprised that as soon as the door clicked he could hear the muffled sounds of Dean being doubly violently sick. His brother needed a doctor. Rubbing his head tiredly, Sam trudged to the table and opened the laptop, intending to search where the nearest clinic was. Opening a search screen, he paused, looking around the room curiously. He had no earthly idea where they were; he had been too sick and miserable to really pay attention when they had arrived and the topic had never come up in conversation. He hoped to see a picture or a pamphlet or something that would give him a clue to their location, but he didn't see anything specific that would be of help. His head throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat and he wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep the pain away, but Dean needed him. After all of the times Dean had been there for him, he had to return the favor now that it was Dean who was suffering. With a heavy sigh, Sam stood and walked to the window, peeking through the curtains in hopes that there would be a clue to their whereabouts, but it was still dark and their room wasn't facing the road.

Sam moved to the table between the two beds, opening the drawer to see if there was anything inside that would give him an idea of where they were, but he found nothing. His mouth felt dry and sticky again, so he took a sip of water, swishing it around in his mouth for a few seconds in hopes that it would help. Since Dean was still in the bathroom, Sam spit the water back into the cup, not daring to drink it, especially since if he were to get sick right now it would be terribly inconvenient for both brothers. He stood, stretching slightly and then swaying as the movement caused him to become extremely woozy, but managed to walk to the table and put his water on the window ledge. He didn't want to accidentally drink any of it later, considering it had already been in his mouth and his mouth tasted like death at the moment. Sitting at the table and strumming on the table with his fingers, Sam tried to come up with another way he could help restore Dean to optimal functioning. He felt completely useless; if he didn't feel like he had been hit by a train multiple times, he could make a pharmacy run and try to gather supplies, if he didn't feel like he'd make the situation worse by hurling all over his brother, he would go in there and offer assistance or comfort or _anything_ to his brother whether Dean liked it or not. But sitting out here, unable to even find a clinic to drag Dean to, made him feel like a total waste of space.

A quick glance at the clock told him that Dean had been in the bathroom for awhile, so Sam figured it was time to check on his sick big brother. He knocked lightly on the door, calling out quietly, "Dean? How's it going?"

"I'm not dead yet." Dean called back, his voice thin and tired, "But I'd probably stay out of here for awhile if I were you."

Sam wrinkled his nose, taking Dean's word for it. His brother was never one who was afraid to tell it like it was, and he had learned long ago that if Dean was going to warn him about something of that nature, it was best to heed his advice. "Do you need some help?"

"I'm not an invalid, Sam." Dean replied with a hint of annoyance. He could understand that the kid was worried, he had been in that same position for the better part of the last twelve or more hours, but he wasn't comfortable being taken care of or fussed over, and Sam knew that. At least, after 22 years of being Dean's brother he should know that. Even if he didn't mind the help or attention, it's not like he would expect or even want his brother to fret over him right now, not when Sam was still quite ill himself. It wouldn't do anyone any good if Sam further ran himself into the ground, because then he'd have to do the same to take care of both of them. It was a lose-lose situation. The best they could do was try to sleep it off and work on getting themselves better.

He finally felt like he was ready to leave the bathroom, which was a step in the right direction as far as Dean was concerned, and he flushed the toilet, placing the trash can he had been using on the floor at his feet to clean out in a moment. When he stood, the room spun wildly around him and he had to let himself sink back into a sitting position, afraid that if he didn't take that precaution he would pass out. He could just imagine his brother's reaction if that happened; it was something to be avoided at all costs despite how much he wished to be unconscious and unaware of his body's rebellion. He stayed still for a few minutes, his head resting in his hands, as he tried to get his bearings, and then stood once more, this time slowly and carefully. Sure that he was going to be able to remain vertical this time, Dean quickly emptied out the trash can and placed it under the faucet in the tub, turning the hot water on and letting it fill in an attempt to rinse out some of the horrible stench. While he waited, he stumbled to the sink and ran the tap, rinsing out his mouth several times and splashing some cold water on his face. He gripped the sink and looked at his reflection in the mirror; no wonder Sam was worried, Dean looked just as terrible as he felt. Of course, Sam was looking equally rotten, but Sam didn't worry nearly enough about his own health as he should. Instead, he seemed to be focused solely on Dean and the plague he had brought down upon them.

Once the trash can was rinsed out marginally well, Dean shook it several times in the tub to fling off any excess water and slowly opened the door, his energy spent just by the little amount of activity he had completed. He spotted Sam sitting at the table, laptop open and on but not actually being used. An assortment of food and drinks that Dean was certain he was never going to actually eat (because he was never going to eat or drink anything again for the rest of his life) were laid out like weapons in preparation for a war on the table, a sign that Sam had been thinking about him and preparing for the eventual end of this nightmare. It was a nice gesture, especially since Sam had taken time to hunt these items down when he was doing just as poorly. Next to the snacks, Sam had laid his head against the table and had apparently fallen asleep. A small puddle of drool was accumulating under Sam's parted lips and a soft snore broke the silence of the room. He had to wake the kid up, or else Sam's back and neck would be stiff and painful when he awoke on his own.

Dean walked to Sam's bed, pulling back the covers and getting it ready before he tried to wake his brother. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into his own bed, every inch of him was tender and sore, but a big brother's work was never done. He didn't mind, it was a job he enjoyed doing and he was proud of both himself and his brother for looking out for each other and watching each other's backs. They were closer than most siblings, even after the whole Stanford separation, and it was worth missing out on an extra five minutes of sleep even in this worn down state to know he did his job, watching out for Sam, to the best of his ability. He staggered back to the table woozily, rapidly running out of steam, and shook Sam's shoulder, "Sammy, wake up, man."

Sam slept on, oblivious, causing Dean to frown in concern. Sam was a notoriously light sleeper and to further complicate things, he was still burning up. The Tylenol should have worked by now, but at least the fever could explain why Sam was so out of it. He shook Sam's shoulder harder, calling out again, "Sam! Come on, dude, wake up."

This time, Sam groggily shifted in the chair, mumbling incoherently but keeping his eyes closed. Clearly, he had no intention of moving.

"Damn it, Sam, you need to go to bed, a real bed, and I'm not carrying you." Dean insisted, continuing to jostle his brother. If his words weren't enough to rouse Sam from his fevered dreams, perhaps the sheer annoyance of Dean pestering him would do the job.

Sam opened one eye, which was focused on Dean's knee, and slowly looked upwards until he reached his brother's face. With a frown, he murmured, "You look like shit."

"You aren't exactly a contestant for Miss America either."

"No, really." Sam said, slowly becoming more awake and alert, "You really look terrible. You need a doctor."

"I'm not the one doubling as a furnace." Dean pointed out, placing his hand on Sam's forehead, "I think the meds are making your fever worse instead of better. Come on, let's get you into bed."

Sam slowly trudged to the bed, collapsing on top of it without even bothering to cover himself or find the most comfortable spot. Things were starting to get all fuzzy again and he could barely feel the rest of his body over the pounding in his skull. He wanted to tell Dean, because Dean would know how to make it better. Dean would be able to say exactly what was wrong with near certainty and would know exactly what steps to take next to remedy the situation. But he couldn't put that burden on Dean, not when Dean looked about two steps behind in this race to the grave. Instead, he closed his eyes and wondered if he would be able to sneak some of the prescription painkillers without Dean noticing and questioning him on it. He propped himself up on his elbows when Dean started to cover him with a blanket, mumbling, "I'm supposed to be taking care of you."

"How about I take care of you and you take care of me?" Dean offered, "Does that sound like a good plan?" After Sam nodded in agreement, Dean continued, "I'm older, so I get to take care of you first."'

"That's not fair."

"Of course it is, Sammy. You just wish you'd thought of it first." Dean replied smugly, poking at Sam's lips with the thermometer for what felt like the hundredth time that day, "Open up and let's see what the lucky number is."

"I'm fine. You're the sick one." Sam mumbled around the thermometer, the words nearly coming out as a whine, "Stop fussing over me and get some sleep."

"Pot, kettle. Take your own advice."

Dean was fading fast and he knew it. He needed to make sure Sam had everything he needed before he was forced back into bed, because he was pretty sure Sam wouldn't move from this spot again unless it was Dean who needed something. His gaze narrowed as Sam pushed his hand against his stomach, and he asked his younger brother worriedly, "Sammy? You okay?"

Sam gave a thumbs up with his free hand. His stomach hurt and he felt pretty nauseated, but not in the sense that he was in imminent danger of vomiting again. Dean looked relieved, which made Sam feel good because he didn't want Dean worrying about him. He tiredly took the thermometer from his mouth, frowning at the number. It seemed like despite whatever action they took to lower his temperature, it was determined to stay between 101.5 and 103.5. No wonder he felt like crap.

"Are you going to get some sleep?" Sam asked his brother, not even having the energy to look at Dean, but still wanting to make sure Dean was cared for. "You should try to drink a few sips of water."

"Yeah, I'm going to do both." Dean replied, "You should, too."

Neither of them felt like rising, though, and both fell asleep before they were able to muster up the strength and energy to get a drink.

Dean awoke many hours later, judging by the sunlight now streaming through the cracks in the curtains, and it took him a few minutes to orient himself to their situation. He was surprised to find a damp cloth on his forehead, especially considering he wasn't the one who needed to be cooled down, and he looked towards his brother's bed, hoping Sam had taken the same action for his own burning skin. Of course not.

He was relieved to notice he felt human again. His stomach felt solid, his head had cleared and his body no longer ached like he had gone ten rounds with a semi truck. He sat up, wincing slightly when he realized his stomach muscles were still tender when stretched too far. He could assume that was to be expected after the abuse they had taken. He was tempted to go check on Sam, to feel his forehead and ask if he had been sick again, but decided it was best to let him sleep. Instead, he determined he was in desperate need of another shower and a toothbrush. He'd check on Sam after he was clean again.

He had stood under the shower spray long enough for the water to start losing it's heat when he heard Sam shuffle into the bathroom.

"How you doing?" Dean called out, "Feeling any better?"

"Tons." Sam replied with a yawn, "You?"

"Nearly 100%. I told you I didn't need a doctor." Dean answered, "I hope you didn't have your heart set on a hot shower."

"Great." Sam mumbled, turning on the sink and washing his face quickly and retrieving his toothbrush from their toiletries kit, "You're awesome."

"If you look up the word 'awesome' in the dictionary, there's a picture of me." Dean agreed, not particularly liking how tired Sam seemed. He had hoped Sam would be back to normal by this point, but at least the kid was taking care of hygiene now. "I'm done here, so if you don't want to see me naked you should finish brushing your teeth somewhere else."

"Can't you just wait two more minutes?" Sam asked irritably, "You've been in long enough to use up the hot water, what's two more?"

"The difference between an enjoyable shower and an icy one."

"Whatever." Sam retorted, clearly not in the mood for banter. He spit out his toothpaste and rinsed out his mouth, then dropped his toothbrush in the trash can. He didn't want to risk giving himself this virus again, it was worth buying another cheap toothbrush. "I'm going, you're safe to exit."

Dean reached around the shower curtain for his towel, drying off quickly and wrapping it around his waist before stepping out of the shower. He dressed quickly and brushed his teeth thoroughly, following Sam's example and tossing out the toothbrush. They would need to restock their medical kit on the way out of town, and toothbrushes were always readily available at any store, sometimes even gas stations.

He stepped back into the main room, surprised to find Sam laying in bed again. Maybe the kid wasn't doing as well as he had thought. Sitting next to his brother, Dean put his hand on Sam's forehead, relieved to find it was slightly warm but nowhere near the heat that had been radiating off of the younger man earlier.

"I thought you said you were feeling better?"

"I am." Sam replied tiredly, "I'm just exhausted. Been a long day, man."

"You're telling me." Dean agreed, walking to the table and picking up the half-empty bottle of Sprite. He nodded in approval, it seemed like Sam had listened to his suggestions about fluids after all, which gave him one less thing to worry about. He tossed the bottle at his brother, "Here, hydrate. Are you going to be okay to hit the road today?"

"Are you?" Sam asked, twisting the cap off the soda bottle, "Six hours ago you were barely able to stand, dude."

"I wouldn't have asked if I wasn't." Dean snapped, not to be mean but to remind Sam who the big brother was in the room. Sam being overly concerned when they were both sick as dogs had been one thing, but if his little brother thought it was going to become a regular thing, he was mistaken.

Sam rolled his eyes, pushing himself off the bed and grabbing his duffel off the floor, "Give me ten minutes to shower and change."

"Clock's ticking, Samantha." Dean called after his brother, who in turn flipped him off before shutting the bathroom door. It was nice for things to be back to normal. While Sam showered, Dean loaded up the car. Ten minutes had come and gone with Sam still in the shower, as Dean had fully anticipated. Walking to the bathroom, he lightly knocked on the door, not wanting to actually have this conversation face to face. Through running water, a shower curtain and a wooden door seemed like a much better way to do this. He cleared his throat, calling out, "Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, time's wasting. I'm hurrying!"

"No, it's not that." Dean said with a grin. It had been a reasonable reaction, he often gave Sam flack for taking too long, "I just wanted to say thanks. For, you know, everything you did. I appreciate it, man."

"Dean, I-" Sam began, but Dean cut him off.

"Sorry, can't hear you over the shower!" Dean called out a bit louder, "Daylight's burning, hop to it, bitch! I saw a donut shop when we were driving in, there's a box of donuts with my name on it."

Dean had started to walk away, so he couldn't clearly make out what Sam said next, but he did catch the words "Jerk" and "Pig", so he could pretty much fill in the blanks from there. The last 24 hours had been really rough, but at least they hadn't suffered alone. There wasn't anything they couldn't get through when they worked together, spanning from fighting baddies to fighting germs.

The End!


End file.
